Love is Not a Victory March
by Hikari no Chibi
Summary: The story of Rumpelstiltskin's newest trophy juxtaposes with the life and times of Dr. Hopper, trying to be brave and do the right thing despite all his insecurities and fears. The Dark Curse is a terrible thing, and winning always comes at a price. ON HIATUS UNTIL AFTER SEASON 2 FINALE.
1. Chapter 1

**Love is Not a Victory March**

_Believing in even the possibility of a happy ending is a very powerful thing..._

**I**

Bedraggled drapes, crumbling mortar, tattered throne, and the putrid stench of Ogre shite, gangrene and decay. Oh yes, Rumpelstiltskin had come to the right place. He knew it the moment he tasted their desperation, floating on the air like a fine fog of ash from the urn, scattered back into the mourners' faces by an unforgiving breeze. Its savor was sharp and salty.

He'd come as the poison-succor to their gaping war wounds, a suture what they really needed was a firebrand to cauterize the seepage. They had something he wanted, though. Someone he liked, very much, and Rumpelstiltskin knew the type. Kind, dutiful, hard-working, a tad spoiled – maybe – but, most importantly, completely and utterly lovely.

That would be the little Lady's task, really: to simply be lovely. He hadn't taken a living creature into his collection before; oh, there were relics of people a-plenty – the Cricket's parents came to mind – but none nearly so lovely as his own life-sized doll, whom he might...

No, no. _No_. This was not the monster's domain. His was to look and gaze, to think impossible things, but never for his claws to scrape the length of a silken bodice or his fangs to worry the delicate skin about a woman's nape; for Rumpelstiltskin, the man, she would be only a companion, and the Dark One would stay at bay. He worded it carefully: not love, large estate, safe friends and family.

He allowed himself some small luxuries, a hand at her waist, his legs grazing her skirts. To touch was a delight the Dark One scarcely deserved, but he would not touch her again – not ever – once they retreated to his home. Too tempting. Too much to go wrong. A small pet in a room full of men with little toy swords was, at minimum, slightly cautioning. Rumpelstiltskin let himself get away with it.

Of course she said yes – he knew the type, before he'd even entered the room. They always acquiesced initially. Then their resolve would fade, and they would beg. They all begged, too, like a clock-work girl set to go off in tears precisely three steps through the Dark Castle's doors. Occasionally, when he was very lucky, he got a few words out of them in the way of temper-tantrums and ferocious, roaring exchanges.

Rumpelstiltskin hoped Belle would be one of the fiery ones, whose cogs and gears spout out sparks and steam at odd hours and kept him entertained. He hoped she would prance about his home, not cleaning much of anything in her gold satin ball gown, and scathe him with a never-ending string of obscenities – she must know at least a few, she was a war-brat after all. Soldiers and Knights and War Rooms were her purview, not at all the timid pocket-watch in need of a good winding.

Oh, please, please let her scream and shout. Weeping, while he spun, drove him to distraction. Insults on the other hand, was almost like conversing with an old friend. He could almost see the sneering derision played out on her pursed red lips and cold blue eyes. His newest treasure was fulfilling her purpose already; he longed to look at her, and she _was_ lovely. Rumpelstiltskin would provoke her, naturally, and oh the things she could say... No one could have over-much to say to him – no chestnut-curled maiden could, certainly – so it was of tantamount importance that she, unlike the last lot of weeping, useless cinder-girls and foundlings, be despicably lovely.

**II**

Henry was a good kid, if only people would take the time to see it. Archie actually enjoyed their sessions, though they had taken a turn for the grim lately. For instance, Henry's new book – a collection of Fairy Stories – had sparked some rather creative attempts to reconcile his discontent with the natural urge to create paracosms of their reality. It was natural for a child his age to imagine things, especially when his adoptive mother was Re...

No, it wouldn't be productive to think unkind thoughts about Ms. Mills. Regina was a lot of things that Archie did not particularly care for, but she was also his employer, his elected representative, and his client's mother. Despite everything that Henry said, the entire town knew that Regina loved her son.

Archie was always cautious not to let his own feelings for Regina cloud his judgment with Henry. Children were like sponges, and Henry was an especially bright child. He would sense any resentment or disdain, no matter how hard Archie tried to suppress it, so the logical conclusion was to simply remain optimistic and kind.

News of his adoption had clearly shocked the boy, and Archie wasn't sure he believed the Mayor's story about an open discussion gone awry. It was much, much more likely from Henry's testimony that he'd uncovered the truth by digging where he wasn't supposed to. Parent-child relationships required extreme delicacy; there was nothing more tragic, in all of history – from the Ancient Greeks to the modern best-sellers – than a family divided, or than a parent and child forever divided.

The guilt he would bear if he accidentally divided a son – adopted or not – from his mother, or if he accidentally divided Henry's identity from his burgeoning sense of wonder and majesty in the world, would haunt Dr. Hopper for the rest of his life. Doing the right thing was not always easy, and the right path was rarely skin-deep – it took a bit of digging.

Frankly, that thought scared him. Archibald Hopper was an indecisive shrink; insecure, to the point of inaction on occasion. He could not flinch, though. Henry, more than anyone else he'd ever seen at his practice in Storybrooke, needed him. A child needed him, so he had to make sure he did things right. The fantasies could continue, they weren't hurting anybody, and Henry needed a coping mechanism.

Well, that wasn't quite right. Henry needed a friend. He was just so terribly alone. Anyone he could talk to, anyone at all, other than himself. He was being paid to hear the boy's thoughts, and Henry knew it. Of course he would have taken the case as a matter of course, he'd listen to anybody who needed him to, but that was not their arrangement. Under all the intimacies and complications, their relationship was a business transaction, and Henry knew it.

Archie knew he would do anything to find Henry a friend, someone his own age that he could relate to, but there was no one. He had no peers, no other children in Storybrooke were adopted – at least not openly, and he was the Mayor's son. All of that might be over-come, though, if he wasn't still chirping on and on about that book...

Should he have a talk with Ms. Blanchard about appropriate reading material? No, that would be a violation of Henry's confidence and his own vows as a psychiatrist. He had to do this right. No more being cowed into compromise and complicity. Henry needed his help, needed him, and he would not lose the child amidst the dark sea of lonely confusion and pain. There was a family at stake, albeit an unconventional one, and he couldn't stand to think he'd be responsible for making it fall apart.

**III**

Rumpelstiltskin really hadn't meant to touch. Honestly, he hadn't. But she was falling, and he opened his arms, and it wasn't his fault. It was _not_ his fault. She was just so soft. He walked away, hands trembling, retreating to his corner to stew, and the leather pants he favored became unbearably tight as she moved about the room – opening the drapes, of all the...

Of course she wasn't actually supposed to clean! What ever put that notion in her head (and he knew it was only himself to blame), it left him with a lovely little house keeper who insisted on dusting, sweeping and bringing him tea.

She'd expected him to give her a list of duties. Waited for it willingly. He was just playing along, it wasn't his fault. And then she'd bent down so prettily at his little quip, and he hadn't the heart to tell her off for dropping his things – let alone for doing the housekeeping like a common maid. If he wanted a maid, he'd damn well hire one. All Rumpelstiltskin had wanted, all he'd dreamed, was a perfectly lovely face to glare daggers at him across the room and perhaps throw a few of his porcelain plates.

Instead, he had a chipped cup that her frankness and sincere sense of economy prevented them from throwing out, and a never-ending string of questions about where he kept his cleaning things. How the hell should he know? The place hadn't been cleaned since he moved in, not even for one moment, by any of the previous maids. In the end, he'd conjured some things designed to make her already non-existent duties lighter – a duster that vanished the nasty stuff, rather than sending it flying, a mop that never needed ringing-out.

Those were small victories, his own way of winning. If she didn't have to work hard, it freed up her nights to spend time with him. His prize – his Belle – was a tricky one. Where she should have shouted, she waited patiently, where she should have wept in the cold, unforgiving dungeon, she berated him, and where she should have winced at his touch..

No. Touching. His hands could not be trusted, and no amount of scrubbing could ever make them clean enough. They were red, under all the black claws and silvered skin: red with blood. Zoso's, the Duke's men, Ogres... he'd lost count of how many others. But it never failed, without pause, that death followed in his wake. Rumpelstiltskin loved it, gloried in it, reveled in the chaos and strategy of looking for his Bae...

Nothing, though, would ever convince him to smother the small, flickering light of his lovely Belle. Not when he could simply gaze at her, and she didn't scream or weep, but rather she looked at him too. Tempting, to delve into her thoughts and peek at what she was seeing. But that defeated the purpose of art, didn't it? His lovely, perfect living painting; mistress of a thousand expressions, laughing with her wrinkled nose, and – like a good collector – his lot was to admire the facets from afar. If he thought she'd stay on a pedestal all day and model her giggles for him, he might have tried it.

At any rate, they had time. He was close, so very close, to recovering his Bae, but in the mean time Belle was his to keep. Rumpelstiltskin loved winning. He loved winning against the Ogres, every time they reared their ugly little heads once or twice a century; he loved winning against the Queen – and his one-off loss to her cunning mother, Cora, made those victories all the more sweet; he loved winning against the petty fools who made deals they did not intend to keep; and, most of all, he loved that he'd won Belle. She was his, to keep, and no one could stop him from looking as much as he pleased.

**IV**

Change was on the air in Storybrooke. The ambient energies of it were making Archie restless, not to mention the mystery surrounding little Henry Mills' failure to appear at their appointment that day.

This was all his fault... Encouraging the boy's fantasies was a mistake. Regina was always telling him so, and now she might have proof. What if he'd sent the child off on a dangerous adventure, inadvertently setting him up for disaster? What if his refusal to tell the Mayor about the story book meant that she hadn't been able to look after her family? What if...

Pongo sensed the change too, the sleek dalmatian pawed at the door – eager for a walk irregularly late in the night – and Archie finally gave in to his own desire for movement. The small room where he held his meetings and his adjacent living quarters were stifling under the constant barrage of inadequacy and anxiety.

The air helped him to think. Archie liked the wide, open skies and the grassy, cool night at the park in Storybrooke. The silence of nature was not quite as stifling as the silence of his apartment, though both struck him as obscenely quiet compared to the gentle clamor of silverware on plates in Granny's Diner, Ruby's laugh tinkling through the place, and the never-ending shuffle of coffee sloshing in half-emptied mugs.

It felt like there should be something more, something noisy. Like some tiny part of what he needed to relax and think straight was missing, right along with Henry, and he didn't know where to look for either of them. Still, missing ingredient or no, he was much better off away from the rest of the town. In fact, he doubted the diner was even open, it was unusually late...

Once Pongo wrapped up his business amongst the bushes and Archie cleaned up the mess, he started the walk back toward his apartment. Mr. Gold would be by for the rent sometime this week, and he didn't want to keep the old curmudgeon waiting. Being evicted from his home and work-space was not Archie's idea of a good career choice.

There was something about Mr. Gold... the slightly distasteful tinge of bile he left in Archie's mouth focused him again, gave him room to detach himself and think. It wasn't a competition between himself and Regina. Clearly she thought he'd be good for her son, or she wouldn't have hired him. And encouraging the boy to express himself and foster that remarkable imagination... no, that was not a declaration of war on the Mayor either.

This wasn't about winning, it was about Henry, and about doing what was best for him. He could continue the treatment – it was a delicate case, but he knew (in the same way he knew to treat Mr. Gold with a sense of woe and trepidation, though the man had never wronged him personally) that his prescribed course was right.

If only he could have that level of surety with his other clients...

Just then, Archie spotted a stranger with blonde hair stepping out of a yellow car. She had Henry with her. Henry was fine, and he hadn't... he hadn't disappointed anybody. No sense in dwelling, though. He had inquiries to make, as he approached the mysterious lady, and no good ever came from giving into one's dark side.

**V**

It killed him to stand there, but Rumpelstiltskin simply couldn't look away. From his perch in the tower, he lorded over all of his estate and could see from the gate-house to the distant lake. Dragons didn't dare pass too close, for fear of his watchful gaze. But, in the paths and glades where the world's mightiest beasts would not tarry, he'd sent his darling Belle for straw.

She wouldn't come back. Why would she? How could she? Freedom was all she craved, whether she indulged the fancies of a haggard old monster or not. She spoke to him. They talked. And she was lovely. He knew, the moment she told him of her betrothal and her hopes, that he could never keep her. The Dark One might have won her fairly, but Rumpelstiltskin couldn't bear to see her in captivity. He'd lost. He didn't usually let people get away, but she... She wasn't like the others. Belle had to be free.

Sad, really. He'd been winning. The fool-hardy fiance had shown up, on schedule, to reclaim his lost Lady, and – unlike all the other run-ins with noble morons – Rumpelstiltskin had disposed of him without so much as a second thought. This was usually the point in their captivity where they were contemplating ways to flee, or leaping from the turret around his library. Soldiers, exceptional soldiers, made better bargains than silly maidens.

But Belle was not one of his cleaning-ladies, Belle was his live-in masterpiece. His little, lovely keepsake, and he... he didn't dare touch, even when his fingers drifted sinfully close to her face and she leaned into his space. He'd not let the monster have its way with her, but he wouldn't let her go, either. She was his, to gaze upon as he pleased, and in protecting his investments from the sword-and-cape rescuer, he'd won. He'd won. It pained him – the want was excruciating. She was everything he wanted, and he could barely contain the beast's appetites.

Hell, Rumpelstiltskin had even given her a rose to celebrate. No one could say he wasn't the better protector of Belle, he'd proven it. He knew it, but he'd proven it. Then she'd gone and said... _that_. So beautiful, so brave, so like his own Bae, and she'd brought out all the old memories.

He should be spinning, but he was stuck at his post near the window instead. Forgetting was a serious business, it let him focus on spell-making and potion-brewing. The time of the curse was coming, and the distractions.. Rumpelstiltskin could list reasons for what he ought to do all day, but that was precisely why he had to set her free. Belle was light, lovely, and entirely contrary to the dark forces even he, himself, found occasionally disturbing.

Belle took a basket, though. She wouldn't have taken it if she hadn't thought... if the possibility... and he'd made a deal. If she returned, he would tell her about Bae. As much as he dared to tell, anyway, and the sheer beauty of her (inside and out) combined with the unfathomable companionship and interest in his son, stirred the coward as much as the monster. Even as the sun was setting, he stood watch. He'd stand for days, just to hold on to the small thread of hope she'd given him.

Maybe he couldn't touch her, but there was still that small, thin connection. Something inside his heart pulled taut. She wasn't coming. She'd left him. He kept looking, and then – surely that couldn't be her on the pathway?

Rumpelstiltskin's heart raced faster than his feet as he descended the steps, two at a time, to beat her to his wheel. She couldn't know. Never, ever know. But he did, and the sight of her was just so lovely.

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

**VI**

Archie wished. He wished, but nothing changed. That was Archie's life, always wishing to be better, wishing he would stop second-guessing himself, wishing he could know – really know, in the most cut and dry sense – the difference between wrong and right. But nothing was ever that black and white, and wishing didn't change anything. Lately, though, he just wished he had someone to talk to. Someone who wasn't paying him for psychological difficulties. Someone who wasn't ten.

Helping the Mayor have Miss Swan arrested was wrong; so was tipping his hand to Emma at all – he had to act in the best interest of Henry, and he was supposed to keep his patient's secrets, not blab them to mysterious blonde strangers who barged into his office. Archie thought he would feel better about it, all told, if he hadn't betrayed Henry's trust to both his mother and Emma Swan. The two women would have to sort their differences out, hopefully without undue damage to the boy, but Archie wanted his office to be a safe space. A place where Operation Cobra could flourish, and the two of them could discuss Henry's fantasies without the need for shame and secrecy.

He'd failed the boy. And now, it looked like he was about to fail him again. He waited in his office, more like a cage than a safe place, until a gentle knock against the wooden door stirred him from his place on the sofa. Marco – only Marco, this time – but Henry wouldn't be far behind.

Archie had forgotten that he and Marco had a standing lunch-date, one they'd rain-checked more times than he could count. That was them: passing and missing in the rain, at odds with the very air they breathed. The bespectacled man sent Marco away, apologizing, and ushered Henry into his office. He almost wished it would rain, to wash away the rank stench of wrongness clinging to him like a disease.

It was easy. Fast, like lightning strike. Henry was planning to go down into the collapsing mine-shafts, looking for evidence, and Archie almost convinced himself that he was acting in the boy's best interest.

"It's something that's not real, and not healthy. And Henry, I thought that you'd outgrow this, but it's turned into a psychosis. Do you know what a psychosis is? That's when you can no longer tell what's real, and if that continues then they have to lock you away. Look, Henry, this has to stop for your own good. You've got to wake up. This nonsense must end," he said. The words came in a downpour, and his heart raced. Then Henry left him, and all he felt was the overwhelming shadow of shame.

How many people had he locked away over the years, at the Mayor's insistence? There were at least three he remembered clearly, maybe more. Sometimes... sometimes it was like he'd lived a whole separate life. It didn't feel right, those memories. No more so than all of his meddling with Henry felt right. But he didn't know how to go about fixing it, was terrified of making everything worse for his patients and for himself.

He knew he made bad choices, went left when he should have turned right like some invisible puppet master was thwarting him with a series of strings and pulleys. Even Pongo didn't want to look at him while he drowned his sorrows in drink, and wished – for the hundredth time – he had even one other person he could talk to.

He was still wishing when Miss Swan stormed in, and for a second Archie wished he was cursed. At least then he wouldn't be so much to blame.

**VII**

Rumpelstiltskin was breathing heavily, struggling to still his hands when Belle approached. She brought the scent of the forest, a dark and wild place, cutting through the closer scents of cut grass and tea that permeated his home. She smelled like air bearing the charge of the storm, absolutely invigorating. He hadn't thought much of her in the first few days at the Dark Castle, other than to let his eyes linger and daydream.

But here she was, fresh-faced and smiling, with a basket of straw on her arm. He let her go and she came back. Loyalty was the only thing that mattered, loyalty and family. No amount of clockwork sorcery or cogs could imitate it, it had to be given freely. She was spectacular, lovely and kind, and he didn't deserve her.

But that was the point, wasn't it? He didn't deserve anything, so he took what he wanted instead. He'd taken her; it bore the guise of an offer, but there wasn't a real choice – not if she wanted to save her people. Many princesses wouldn't have done it, never mind the daughter of a minor noble on the frontier of an Ogre War. What had she secured, really? An island of sanctuary amongst the bloody fields of war.

Goodness, in and of itself, was not enough to tempt him. But Belle could. Belle, with her graceful dignity, who wasted nothing, and who asked for less. Belle tempted him in ways he couldn't articulate, because even the simple act of touching her, laying his mottled skin against her dress, would give the monster what it wanted. But it would also please the man, shreds of humanity he'd left with Zoso in the glen clung to him, and yearned for the simple pleasure of holding the woman's hand.

Belle. She'd come back. And she was happy to see him. No woman, not even his own wife, had ever looked at him so kindly. She plucked the thread from his fingers, sat at the wheel with him, and placed her hand upon his knee. He felt his voice raw and low, his throat ragged, as he battled to keep the cackling madman at bay. Then she kissed him, and his whole world began to crack. Cups shatter. Hearts chip. Curses break. In the annals of his memory, he recalled only two things: the softness of her flesh, squeezed to bruising by the monster's claws, and the smell of lanolin on his stave.

Rumpelstiltskin hadn't touched the wretched walking stick since the night he made the trek to the Duke's keep, and the smell of sheep still clung to it where it had rubbed off from the spinner's hands. It stood, lonely, in the corner of the Dark Castle, and it reminded him of exactly what he had at stake.

Baelfire would be beyond him forever without his magic. Belle couldn't stay if he hoped to finish the curse, no matter how badly the man wanted it. The monster knew only its own appetites, the Dark One wouldn't pause at kissing her – oh no – and now that it knew she was a threat, the most likely result would be his sweet, lovely Belle's violent death. He couldn't return to being weak, it was better to be strong and lonely. But he couldn't kill the woman who'd betrayed him, either, and that was a problem.

He let her go. Again. And the monster howled inside of him when she cut through his lies with a clever tongue, then turned and walked out. The man had cast her off, and in so doing her utter bravery charmed the monster, reluctant to the last.

It was too late for both of them now. Alone together, always working, Rumpelstiltskin remembered what it meant to be lonely again.

**VIII**

Of course Henry had gone down into the mines anyway. Archie was an idiot if he didn't think... if he... He was an idiot, always busy second-guessing himself when he should have been thinking of another.

The tunnels had been dark and dreary, their struts groaning under the pressure of a hundred million tiny pebbles, all shifting a fraction of an inch at precisely the same time. It was enough to send the structure toppling, and throw their town into disarray. He hadn't really meant to rescue the boy, but – finding himself on the wrong side of a cave-in – he'd struck a match, a little flame in the sea of darkness, and looked for Henry.

Just because he hadn't meant to do it didn't mean it wasn't the right thing to do. Those first few moments alone in the darkness were like nothing he'd ever known. The walls and shadows danced around him, a sea of shapes that mocked him – airy nothings, leering from the walls, grinning fangs atg his complacency and saying, "you should be afraid." Then he'd found Henry, and the light of the child's torch nearly blinded him.

It took him hours, and all he'd had were words and an umbrella. That was him all over – no umbrella in the rain, but he'd taken one with him underground – another left when he should have gone right. They were both trapped, in a place with unseen mysteries lurking just beyond the line of sight. Emma saved them. He thought he could do it on his own, but he'd been wrong, and – somehow – Emma Swan had saved them both. Emma and his own umbrella, finally in the right place at the right time.

Henry, that brave child, had come to the mines in search of proof. Proof that it all meant something, that he wasn't crazy. In a way, the boy was the more mature one of the pair. Archie knew he should be looking too – in the teleological sense – and coming to terms with himself, with his regrets and short-comings. Archie wasn't that brave, not yet, but he felt at the base of his spine all the way to the raised hairs on his neck that there was _meaning_. A fundamental value existed in their exchange, even if it was merely the shadow of an idea flitting like a flame.

Regina only wanted what was best for her son, so much so that she was willing to take risks, to chain him to a path he didn't want and to lies he didn't believe. She used that same ferocity when it came to fighting Emma, but it was a fight that simply couldn't be won. Not without destroying the child in their cross-fire, and Archie wished with all his heart he'd never see that day come. It nearly had, in the mines, but he'd stopped it.

He hadn't told Henry that his mother was the one who demanded he disillusion the boy. No child should ever think their parent wished them harm, and Regina didn't. Not truly. She simply saw a deeper, more menacing shadow on the wall and reacted before the unseen beast could sink in its claws. Archie would, for the rest of his life, bear the guilt of knowing he'd sacrificed the well-being of a child for his own comforts.

But he also had pride. Pride in, as Henry put it, figuring out the right thing to do. It had taken him a long time. Decades, his whole life-time, maybe. But he'd done it, and the Mayor knew where he stood. It felt good. Right, for a change, like a beacon instead of a half-shadow cast by a low, precocious flame.

Tomorrow, he was meeting Marco at Granny's, and no amount of rain could keep him away. But tonight, for the first time in his life, Archie was listening. And that night, in the wake of their entrapment and after a good long while reflecting, he fell asleep to the sound of crickets chirping.

**IX**

Belle. He spun to forget, but here – at this wheel – all he could do was remember.

She'd always been beyond his reach, he hadn't allowed himself to touch her – not casually; not for the sheer pleasure and novelty of touching. She was really beyond his reach this time, not just lurking in the other room pretending to dust while she was secretly reading. Lately, when Rumpelstiltskin spun straw into gold it was also to erase the smell of damp woodlands and rosewater, along with the scent of sheep and woodsmoke that lingered faintly on Bae's things. Nothing could ever be the same without them, but he was close – so close – to winning. After the curse, maybe he could find her again and... maybe she'd forgive him, some day.

Rumpelstiltskin could never expect her to love a hobbled spinner, women didn't like cowards, but when this world died at least the new world would give them both a fresh start. He didn't dare to dream of happiness – he didn't deserve happiness, not really – and the curse would keep him from it anyway. But to see her, to touch her without fear of the beast, that would truly be something.

The part of him that feared to meet Bae again, that felt abandoned and betrayed no matter how he quashed it down inside, wanted to find her and kiss her until neither of them could see straight. He'd be brave, slay the beast for a second time, and be rid of the Dark One for life. He had enough gold to live out twenty lifetimes, he could keep her in style, keep her safe.

But the larger parts, the father and the cowardly bully, couldn't give it up until he'd seen it through. She'd come back to him once, though; she was not so far gone as Bae. He had another year, maybe two, of serious labor on his plans before he had to push the Queen into enacting the Dark Curse. He could wait that long to see her again, and she was undoubtedly safer away from him than she had been by his side. Next to him, the monster would claim her. It was an eventual fact: the Dark One destroyed everything, with or without his consent.

If he was being honest with himself, which he rarely was, he liked the power too. Love and power were not in constant states of turmoil, but his power, his love, those had to be divided by a wide gulf or he risked losing both of them.

He made so many excuses to himself, he wasn't sure he could tell the truths from the lies any more than the cave troll knew day from night. It was all the same to those dull creatures: seclusion, violence, and a life-time of never-ending, lonely night.

The excuses changed nothing. He was winning in his war against the Fae, after centuries of careful planning, but he still left his doors unlocked. In case she wanted... in case she decided to come back again.

Rumpelstiltskin knew he was wallowing, but the hope that she'd walk back through the castle's doors, that he'd find her on the other side of the curse, that she'd forgive him... it was a simple thing, hope, but it kept him alive. But all of that was before he'd heard of the tragedy from the Queen, and before he really understood the high cost of defeating the Blue Fairy.

She died. She died, and he was so lonely all he could do was caress her cup and cry.

**X**

Archie didn't remember the last time he and Marco had enjoyed their coffee and pie in Granny's Diner, or drinks at The Rabbit Hole over an order of pub food. They always seemed to cancel, to miss one another by a few minutes, or to postpone their walks on account of rain. Lately, though, he'd found the time.

The clock on the library was still ticking away, steadily marching through their days, and Archie wondered – half jokingly – if the large timepiece somehow made their friendship run a little more smoothly.

Marco always treated him like he had something valuable to say, even when no one else seemed to notice him. Dr. Whale got a lot of respect from the citizens, people expected him to behave a certain way. Both of them were medical doctors, but the way the town (as its own entity) treated them was as different as night and day. Dr. Whale got special treatment at The Rabbit Hole; Archie got to mediate local debates.

It wasn't that one was better than the other, or that he was jealous – not really jealous, anyway. He was, just a little, he supposed. Jealous, that was. No one like Mary Margaret Blanchard ever gave him a second look, but Ruby had it on good authority that she and Dr. Whale had... No. No good could come from gossiping like a school girl. That was the difference between them: not their degrees or their circumstances, it was that Archie never wanted to cross a line that would make him incapable of seeing one of his neighbors professionally.

What was he supposed to do if a woman he'd slept with needed counseling? He couldn't see her, ethically, but he couldn't send her away either. The Boston referrals took forever to come through. His conscience simply wouldn't let a call for help go unheard.

Marco was one of the few people in town who had never been his client. It was his bravado and his common sense that Archie liked, and – whatever the older man liked about Archie's company – he treated him like a friend, brother, and son. Despite all his hardships, Marco was brave, and Archie admired that in his mentor. Marco, for instance, didn't mind Mr. Gold's cold stares and sharp retorts like most people in Storybrooke.

They'd even done a spot of shopping there the other day, looking for a little trinkets from a forgotten age. Gold kept a shop full of curiosities, but in the end they couldn't find anything. Nothing that Archie liked well enough to give her, anyway, and Marco gave him a thorough elbowing in his ribs when he implied... well, that wasn't likely. Still, Archie did like Ruby, and he was glad to have her back – even if it was just to pour their coffee.

When things settled back down, despite the constant warring between Henry's mother and the new Sheriff, despite the rumors of violent murder and adultery, despite the allegations of arson... underneath all of that, Archie made sure to thank Ruby properly for pouring his coffee.

This life might not be what either of them had in mind, solitude and seclusion tempering more ambitious hopes for the future – travel, marriage. They had these lives , not the fantasies, and they had friends, which was more than people like Mr. Gold could say.

Maybe someday he'd even add Ruby to his small group; he thought she'd like some of Marco's stories.


End file.
